“Freeman?” Oberland asked.
“Ray Freeman, a mercenary. Cygnus Command sent him when we reported seeing Crowley.”
Oberland’s expression went flat, and he rubbed his chin. “A mercenary saved your platoon? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
I could feel tension welling up in my gut. “You never saw Marines like the ones on Gobi,” I said, hating the defensive tone in my voice. “Men with long hair, men walking around without helmets…One of our guys was so fat he could not pull his helmet over his head. There was no discipline.”
Oberland leaned forward, and whispered, “Were they clones?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t know that could happen with clones.”
“Mr. Oberland, these guys were on permanent R and R. They practically lived in the nearest town.”
“Okay, so the mercenary saved the day. Why were you promoted?”
“ ‘Meritorious service,’ ” I said. “I helped Freeman while the rest of the platoon hid in the barracks.”
Oberland smiled. “And you got a promotion and a transfer?”
“The transfer was the best part. I’ve been assigned to the Scutum-Crux Fleet, a fighter carrier called the Kamehameha.”
“The Kamehameha? Not bad, Harris.” He nodded. “That’s Bryce Klyber’s ship. He’s got to be the most powerful man in the military today.”
“He’s not one of the Joint Chiefs?” I said. I would have known his name if he was one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“Oh no, no, no.” Oberland shook his head. “That would be Fleet Admiral Klyber to you, and he is much more powerful than the Joint Chiefs. They’re just appointees; Klyber has friends and family on Capitol Hill. There are some interesting political goings-on in Scutum-Crux. One of the planets was just hauled before the Senate.”
I shook my head. “Galactic news didn’t seem all that important back on Gobi. Nothing ever happened there, and nothing that happened anywhere else mattered there.”
“That’s what they told you when you got there?” Oberland asked.
“That’s what they told me.”
“And you still believe them?” Oberland’s smile turned acid. “Wayson, a renegade general from a different arm of the galaxy showed up on your planet and tried to blow up your base.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”
“You might have known who he was if you kept up with events, Wayson. You’re going to be on the flagship carrier of the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Everything you do will have consequences.”
“And Klyber?” I asked, wanting to change the subject from my own shortcomings.
Oberland leaned forward as if he wanted to whisper a secret, then spoke in a normal voice. “Admiral Klyber is the most connected man in the Navy. Perform a little meritorious service under his command, and you may be the first enlisted man to earn a commission.”
CHAPTER FIVE
On my last day of leave, I flew from Seattle to Salt Lake City, then took a military shuttle to Mars. Possibly the single most commercial spot in the universe, the Mars way station was not a colony but a conglomeration of stores, transport facilities, and dormitories. The first building constructed away from Earth, the ever-changing structure was always under renovation but never fully modernized—a sprawling structure with a gigantic military base and a civilian port filled with restaurants, shops, and overnight hotels. It was the Unified Authority’s gateway to the galaxy.
I cut through the crowds and reported for duty at the military transfers’ desk. A young corporal reviewed my orders and passed me through to a gate where I spent another two hours sitting around before boarding the long-distance transport that would take me to the Central Scutum-Crux Fleet.
All flights out of the Sol System passed through the broadcast station orbiting Mars. We had barely cleared the atmosphere when the “prepare for jump” sign flashed over the passenger compartment. Tint shields formed over the windows, but they only muffled the glare shining off the two gigantic elliptical discs that formed the broadcast station. The discs looked like giant mirrors; they were more than one mile across. Ships did not enter the discs, they merely approached and lowered their shields. The jagged electrical stream pouring out of the mirrors was so bright that glancing at it could blind you for life.
Though sending ships through the broadcast system cost nothing, keeping the discs powered was expensive. Private citizens paid a fifty-dollar-per-cubic-yard toll for entering the broadcast system. Corporations got lower rates when shipping products. Navy ships and government transports passed for free. A team of accountants probably spent their entire careers transferring funds to cover fleet movements.
The pilots cut the engines as we approached the broadcast discs. Our ship slowed to a glide while a silvery red laser scanned the outside of the ship, verifying our registration and checking for hazardous substances and weapons. The pilot said, “Prepare to jump,” over the speaker system, and the sending disc, the one that translated ships into impulses and transmitted them, splashed its blue-white lightning against our hull. The air in the cabin began to crackle, and the electricity made my clothes conform to my body as if doused with water. Pressing my face against the tinted window for a better look, I got a quick glance of the orbital Army post guarding the disc before we flashed into the Sagittarius Arm.
The Unified Authority took broadcast station security very seriously, especially Mars Station security. Three F-19 Falcon fighters from the Air Force’s Mars base patrolled the reception disc at all times and long-range cannons guarded the area from the surface of nearby moons. Lights illuminated every inch of the discs and the posts that guarded them. If there were some way to light space itself, I think the area around the disc station would have been lit.
It took us five minutes to travel the five hundred miles from the surface of Mars to the broadcast discs, and less than one second to travel nearly ten thousand light-years to the Sagittarius Arm. My trip from the Sagittarius Arm to the Scutum-Crux Arm took less than five seconds—just long enough for the transport to materialize and glide from the receiving disc to the transmission disc of the next station.
Using the broadcast corridor, you could travel from one galactic arm to the next in a matter of moments. Traveling within that arm to your final destination could take weeks.
The network did not rely on wormholes or black holes or any other natural phenomenon, it was purely devised by man. Sending discs emitted some kind of energy wave that absorbed matter and waves as they approached. The disc would simply communicate everything it translated to a receiving disc, where it could be turned back into its original form.
In theory, the disc orbiting Mars could have broadcast us to a disc near SC Command, but interLinking the galaxy would compromise Sol System security. To control broadcast traffic and prevent invaders from tapping into their system, U.A. engineers designed the broadcast corridor in a linear fashion. The Mars disc would only accept transmissions from four transmission discs—the two closest discs in the Orion Arm and the interarm transmitters in the Sagittarius and Perseus Arms. Transmissions from unknown sources were deflected into space and never materialized again.
Our final jump placed us in the center of Scutum-Crux, a mere 500 million miles from Command headquarters. Once away from the discs, most military vehicles were required to travel at a standard 30 million miles per hour. That meant approximately seventeen hours of flying time. Most of the other passengers on the ship were officers who chatted quietly among themselves. A corporal sat splayed across several seats in the row across the aisle from where I sat. I had seen him get on. He stowed his bags, dropped into his seat, and passed out, for all intents and purposes. I did not know if he was drunk or hungover, but he was dead to the world.